Diamonds Are Forever
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: When she leaves, she takes the Erickson Beamon and his heart. BC, post 3.17
1. Sympathy for the Devil

**DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER**

_  
Diamonds are forever_  
_ They are all I need to please me _  
_ They can stimulate and tease me_  
_ They won't leave in the night_  
_ I've no fear that they might desert me_

**  
Chapter One. Sympathy for the Devil**

.**  
**

He finds her by accident. It's fucking ironic. After all this time, after everything he's done, finding her like this. He's been to Paris a thousand times. He should have known to look here. She always said it made her feel alive. He can't remember what _alive_ feels like. It's been seven years. It's been seven long fucking years. Seven years without her, without Serena or Nate or hum-drum Humphrey. They took her side. And why wouldn't they? He doesn't blame them. He's a monster. And without her, there's no fucking point in hiding it.

Zippo, cold click, flame burns a hole in the night.

He lights up, cigarette number seventeen. It's a bad habit, but it feels good, and does he give a shit if it's killing him? He's going to die, anyway. He's already dead. He drags and exhales, nice and slow, and the smoke wafts upwards. He leans back into the velvet, watching it unfurl. It's a woman, with the softest curves, like the openingto some Bond movie, made of oil or diamonds. Things too beautiful for real life. He swipes the smoke, and she's gone. Another ghost.

He's needs to call fucking Ghostbusters. She's a ghost, and she's haunting him. In the dark, she whispers and her fingers almost touch him. He can't find her.

There's music seeping through the smoke. Rolling Stones: _Sympathy For The Devil_.

It's Christmas and Paris is grey. The damp cold gets into his knee and every step hurts. It seemed like a good idea at the time; cocoon yourself in the physical pain, let it eclipse you, neutralise the rest. He's since learned that real life has a bad habit of laughing in the face ofthe best laid plans. He locked the door and threw away the key before he realised the bad guys were in there with him. Now every step is a reminder of what she's reduced him to. Now every step makes him hate her more. She's an old wound, refusing to heal, weeping blood and puss and hate. She's his scar, his cross, his life. His new game; his old obsession. He will find her if it kills him. And maybe, when he does, he'll kill her himself. Strangle her, tear out her heart with his bare hands. The bible says an eye for an eye. A heart for a heart. He'll string **hers** off a necklace, and it will be the most precious diamond of all.

He'll wear it to Christmas dinner.

_[please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth __**and**__ taste] _

Sympathy for the Devil? Only he doesn't want fucking sympathy. He wants her.

He douses his cigarette in his absent companion's champagne. Lights up again.

Down here below the world, everyone smokes. The air is black with smoke and the lights are faraway and dead, stars through mist, and everything is closer, more private. **Dirtier**. The smoke keeps the secrets in and the world out. Normally he wouldn't mix business with pleasure, but he makes an exception for Paris, because Paris is the exception. In Paris, anything goes. The people here put away their masks. Here, they become the monsters they are under all the skin and silk and Chanel no. 5.

_[pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name, but what's confusing you is just the nature of my game]_

She says something in French, this pretty little girl with blonde curls and too-blue eyes.

He raises his head. Slow. Exhales in her face. She breathes it in, rolling her head, like it's fucking diamonds he's throwing at her. She squats, reaching over the table, sliding on it, plucks the cigarette from his lips and takes the longest drag. When she hands him back his cigarette, the filter is sticky with lipstick. His lip curls. She climbs up and over and in. Smells like musk and caramel and smoke. He kills the butt in a solid gold ashtray. Opulent, ostentatious, fucking ridiculous – but it works because this is burlesque and you can do whatever the fuck you want.

_[as heads is tails, just call me Lucifer, 'cause I'm in need of some restraint]_

But he does that anyway.

_[__so if you meet me, have some courtesy, have some sympathy, have some taste ]  
_  
He dips his lips to her throat, his hand on her thigh. She's warm, her skin powdery soft. He catches her by the chin and his grip is tight. He nods, just a little, touching a finger to his lip. Her pink tongue flickers out, licking her lips, searching for lipstick that isn't there. Her eyes are too blue. They hurt.

"_Tout partie_?"

All gone?

He shakes his head, smirks. Beckons her in close. She's straddling him when the Prince returns, tie askew, drink in hand. "I see you got my present."

He nods, slow, intense. He doesn't say anything because he's got nothing to say. Did he get the present? It's only fucking eating his neck.

The Prince is some exiled Algerian aristocrat, with diamond mines but without soldiers to protect the miners from insurgents. He can supply the soldiers, as many as necessary; he can also supply the rebels. More rebels with more guns means more soldiers, and more soldiers means more money. Nothing is as profitable as war.

But the fuck is it worth? No amount of money is going to make the ache go away. It's like something is eating him from the inside, something small and black and just as nasty as he is. One day it's going to come bursting out, he knows, like fucking _Alien_ – and they'll find him in the gutter with a hole in his chest. That and the pins in his knees holding him together – actual, physical, concrete evidence that he **is**, in fact, fucking falling apart.

His drink is served with diamonds in the glass. It still tastes the same. She's crawling onto his lap, kissing his collar bone, running her gloved fingers through his hair. He talks to the Prince over her shoulder. All closeted away from the world, they can talk about business and black, dirty things that belong in the dark.

He's vaguely aware the lights have dimmed and the music is anticipating.

_[young girl, they call them the diamond dogs]_

"I want to 'aff product on ze market by zis time next year," the Prince says. He has black eyes. "Either way."

He replies, in his hoarse voice, "And do you want to supply Tiffanys, _mon ami_?" He takes time with the French. He always felt that French should not be rushed. "Or Cartier?"

The Prince grins with yellow, diamond-studded teeth. "When my associate told me of ze young American, I must say, I woz uncertain. But you 'aff indeed proved worth ze risk." He puts something on the table. Clink. Heaviness on polished wood. It's a little velvet drawstring purse, black. The Prince pushes **it** halfway.

He murmurs into the girl's neck and she fetches it for him. He breathes in her skin. She curls up in his lap, like some small fuzzy creature, and they open the bag. "Oooh," she whispers with too-blue eyes. "Oooh."

Diamonds.

He loves diamonds. He picks one up, something tiny and white, and holds it to the light. It sparkles because that's what diamonds do. Beautiful, hard, cold, classy. Near fucking indestructible and, like gold, always hold their market value. Diamonds are forever.

She whispers in his ear, throaty and French, "Diamonds are a girl's best friend."

He looks at her, eyebrow raised. His gaze is easy: _you want one? Huh? You want a diamond, you little whore_? He holds up the stone. It's one of about fifty tiny rocks in his cupped hands.

"_Diamonds_," she sings.

He hovers, choosing, and picks a big one. Her eyes go black with lust. She reaches. He shakes his head. He smiles. "Ah, ah, ah…" He shakes his head.

She squirms to the floor, poised and ready, but he just shakes his head again. She's confused. He takes the diamond, tosses it up, and it sparkles. Catches it, puts it in the champagne glass, hands it to her.

"On the house," he says. "Drink up."

And she does, she drinks it all and her eyes tear up. She drinks because he tells her to, and when he tells, people do as they're told. His voice is soft, slow, but it's there in his eyes. Something feral, lurking.

The Prince looks on approvingly. "You like burlesque?" He asks. "I zink you do like. You 'aff a club of your own, in New York."

Victrola. The root of all evil. He fell in love with her that night. She stripped back her layers and revealed something new and perfect. Then she striped back his layers and saw only darkness.

He loved burlesque. Debauchery, excess, pretence, happy endings. But he knows now, the longer one avoids reality, the harder it finally bites.

"Sold it," he muttered.

"_Porquoi_?" The Prince has to yell through the noise and smoke. "Why? Zis ees real life. You can touch eet."

"_Je ne sais pas._"

His forearm splays the table, and he leans forward. His knee fucking hurts and he grits his teeth, grinding. There are pills, but he won't take them. This pain reminds him he's real.

The Prince talks but says nothing, and he just nods while the girl works. He holds up his hand for another drink, leans back, smokes with his eyes closed. Sometimes it's agony just to keep them open. Every brunette looking the other way is her.

He knows what he did was wrong, but she wronged him, too. She fucking lied. She promised to stay with him, no matter what, and then she left, just like everyone else. People always leave.

She took the Erickson Beamon with her, and his heart. She took away his heart and now something black grows in the hole, a fungus, a disease. Sometimes his nose bleeds for no reason and it's the blackness, knocking on the walls, saying don't you fucking forget about me. I'm here. I'm staying. I'm fucking staying.

The noise in the pit dies, trumpets flare; the dancers are departing, leaving the stage to raucous applause and shouts, leaving the tables and the laps. Leaving behind the smell of cheap escape. The noise in the pit swells and the night crackles. The air is so tight. A single droplet of sweat runs down the side of his face. The girl licks it up.

The Prince opens his mouth. "I must ask, my friend– "

But whatever he has to ask is gone. Meaningless. When he finds her, he doesn't see her. He smells her. He is a shark and she's blood in the water. He's the hunter and she's the prey, and he's been waiting for so very, very long. His mouth is dry.

_[diamonds are forever, they are all I need to please me]_

He stands, staggering, the pain explodes and runs down his leg, sticky and wet and hot. He pushes through, smoke and bodies. Clutching the edge of the balcony, breathing.

_[they won't leave in the night, I've no fear that they might desert me]_

She's singing, on the stage, just her and faceless men in tuxedos. They have little plastic guns because they're little plastic men.

_[diamonds never lie to me, for when love's gone, they'll luster on]_

She's wearing a black hat and veil, a widowed bride. Long black gloves, black stocking and a garter belt. And diamonds. They all yell in the blue glow, wanting to be the brightest light, and he holds up a hand to shield his eyes. He tells himself it's the diamonds that blind him.

_[I can see every part, nothing hides in the heart to hurt me]_

She wanted a white knight. Something dark and intoxicating, but fundamentally good. A hero in a badass trenchcoat, or an Armani overcoat. She wanted a Rhett. An arrogant fucking asshole, yeah sure, but he came through in the end. He carried her. He was no Rhett, he knew that, and she knew that, but she refused to see it. She convinced herself that he was, just because she loved him, who she wanted him to be. She erased out the black bits, she put on rose-tinted glass. Because she _loved_ him, he had to be a good guy. He had to be a diamond in the rough.

He is a diamond. Polished and hard and cold and indestructible. He is a cockroach. And he isn't going anywhere. Because diamonds are forever.

_[unlike men, the diamonds linger, men are mere mortals who are not worth going to your grave for] _

The Prince appeared at his shoulder, drinking her with hungry eyes. "_Trés belle_, _non? _American. Came to me, oh, _je ne sais pas_, six years ago. They call 'er Fantine, after ze character from _Les Miserables_. 'Er lover, 'e left 'er, stupid bastard, and now she waits."

_[diamonds are forever]_

"I know her," he breathes. Tastes her on the air.

The Prince claps him over the back and his knee screams. "_Oui_, Monsieur. You see 'er in your dreams!"

She slides off the gloves. All she's wearing is the Erickson Beamon.

The pain reminds him it's all real. That's there no escape. Not for her. Not this time.

_[diamonds are forever, forever, forever and ever]_


	2. My Life Would Suck Without You

**DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER**

_  
Diamonds are forever  
Sparkling round my little finger  
Unlike men, the diamonds linger  
Men are mere mortals who  
Are not worth going to your grave for_

_**  
Chapter Two. My Life [Would Suck] Without You **_

_.**  
**_

She saves it for last, the Erickson Beamon. It's inexplicable, there aren't words, in English or French, but she loves the feel of it against her skin. It makes her safe. Beautiful. She lays it on the black velvet, a constellation in its own right, the only star in the sky, and snaps the box shut. Over the years, she amassed quite the collection, all locked up tight in her safe. But she carries this one with her. Just in case.

Just in case?

Just in case, just one more time, she'll feel more than cold silver when someone fastens it around her throat.

_Something so beautiful deserves to be seen on someone worthy of its beauty_.

She opens the box, puts it back on. Her reflection is different now, but the diamonds are forever. She reaches up to arrange the necklace properly, and winds her scarf around her throat.

The rain has frozen now, yet it's not quite snow. It tumbles down hard, wet and white and sometimes orange under streetlamps' flush. In the morning, everything will look perfect. But she likes it like this; looks are deceiving. This is the Paris they don't show on postcards, but she thinks they should. It has character. A light wind ruffles the Seine and her umbrella shields her from the worst. She's wearing red woollen socks, up past her knees, and boots. They have a label, but such means nothing in Paris. In Paris, everything has a label.

A car crawls by, laughter, voices spilling out the oen windows. Drunk, happy people singing loud, loud enough that nothing else matters.

_[__Being with you is so dysfunctional, I really shouldn't miss you but I can't let you go]_

They're from New York. Who else would sing Kelly Clarkson, drunk at four AM, laughing in the snow out the top of a limo?

_[Because we belong together now again, forever united here somehow, you've got a piece of me and honestly my life would suck without you]_

Christmas in Paris. They must be rich. She pulls her coat closer, but this new cold comes from the inside.

Didier greets her at the door. He's reading another airport thriller. He's got this look on his face and it lingers, clinging to her consciousness like a bad smell. He knows something, and he doesn't tell her. She should go back, but the ancient elevator clanks past the second story, and there's no point. He'll be there in the morning. She thinks of her bed, of warm milk and Irish Cream, silk sheets and almond hand cream. And Fabien, always Fabien. It's nearing four AM.

Maybe in the morning, they'll go for crepes in the cafe down by the bridge. Maybe they'll feed the pigeons by the Notre Dame. Go shopping, drink _chocolat chaud_ with pink cheeks and noses. Maybe they'll stay in bed, all day long, bake things that smell like Christmas, listen to the snow, whisper.

Something's not right. She opens the door and the smell wraps around her like the silkiest sheet, the most toxic gas. It's cigarette smoke, liqueur and the past. She closes the door with the flat of her hands, facing into the apartment. Nothing moves, only smoke, floating, whispering lost things.

Madame has left. Why has Madame left so early?

She swallows. Afraid.

She pushes herself off the door and peels her coat from her shoulders, hanging it on the peg. The umbrella slots into the stand's waiting embrace. Boots come off. Socks pad across the wood with feline grace, and she turns down the hallway into the kitchen. The window is open and cold hangs close to the floor, biting at her ankles. Cat comes running and winds himself about her. She bends to scratch behind his ears, and he purrs like a ticking clock.

The grandfather clock strikes four. Tick tock, the house's heartbeat, tick tock. The lace curtains billow and suck in the wind. The shutters crash closed, open, closed.

He sits at her kitchen table. He looks different now, but she can't quite put her finger on how. All grown up, grown out of the awkward teenage limbs and baby-face charm. He's wearing black. Hair messy, tie loose. He takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales with a rush of soft breath, and it touches her like damp fingers all the way across the room. He is different.

She can't help wondering if he thinks _she_ looks different. And if he likes it, the shorter hair, the fuller figure. She could never help wondering.

Thoughts come and go, flowing, but words stick in her dry mouth.

He lights a new cigarette with a heavy, silver lighter. Clacks like a crocodile mouth. He smokes three cigarettes, sitting at her kitchen table, before anyone moves. She closes the shutters but the night shines through the cracks, and she can hear the black river.

She knows she should ask him to leave. Knows he won't. She expected him to come hunting – it's just some game to him, a game he has to win – but she hadn't expected, when she left the bright lights behind, that all these years later, she would be waiting.

But she doesn't think on that.

She pours them both a drink, carries the glasses to the table and slides his across. Halfway. They clink the glasses together, murmuring _à la tienne_ and drinking. She goes back for the bottle, and he watches her with hawk eyes. She can't return to the table, to him, and drinks by herself.

She doesn't think on what could, should have been – would have been, were it not for Fabien. She would be different, definitely. But she's not. This is how it is. And she thinks about the slow warmth oozing through her, making her tingle all over, that feeling of sinking into a warm bath, an old bed, a lover's embrace – she thinks it has nothing to do with the bottle in her hands, the drink in her stomach.

"You took your time," she says. There is smoke, in his eyes. She folds her arms to protect herself, but holds his gaze. She's a big girl now. "What are you doing here?"

Is it a question? A demand, a plea, a resignation? Elation?

"Well, hello to you, too. Long time, no see," he drawls, his voice silver smooth, like mercury. "_Est-ce que t'ai manqué ? Me cherie?_"

He manages to make it sound like a crime.

_Did you miss me? _

She thinks, thinks about how every man drinking Scotch in the darkest corner makes her heart swell up like an old bruise; thinks about how, when cars roll by with dark windows, she looks, watches and wonders, wonders if he's watching back. She shrugs lightly. "I've been busy."

"Of course. So many men, so little time."

His sneer shows too much sharp tooth.

She turns away. Walks to the window and closes her eyes against the winter. The cold pushes past her face as it seeps on by. If only he knew.

It's hard now, with his body stealing half the oxygen, returning the carbon dioxide, all the air mingling, his air and her air, and now she breathes in his leftovers. Again. It's hard, because she should hate him, but she can't. She hates what he did to her, how he made her feel – makes her feel, always – but she cannot hate him. He's too pathetic. She's too weak.

If only he knew.

"It's not like that."

He says nothing, so she turns around. And he's standing right behind her. He grabs her chin, yanking it back up. "And I suppose that was your identical twin I saw tonight," he hisses – fitting. "Stripping."

She slaps his hand away but his arm, braced against the windowframe, blocks her. He's so close she can feel his pulse thudding through her own veins. She turns her head. Exposes her throat.

"You didn't seem to mind last time," she retorts, cold and regal. She pushes, but he doesn't budge. Not an inch. "Let me go."

"I'm not touching you."

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" His other arm thuds against the wall. A cage. He's leaning back, so casually, and lights up. He smiles, a smile that lights up those eyes, a quick orange burst like the Zippo's rush, and then the steady decay of the last ember. Only it's not a smile, it's a smirk, and it makes her stomach ache. "Like what?"

He exhales and black eyes throb through the smoke. Like he can see past the blood and bones, right down to her core, to the cobwebbed corners of unforgotten things, not for lack of trying.

"Like you're a whore?"

She laughs in his face, shattering the smoke.

"Oh, please. You sold your soul long before I did. Can't you feel it? The empty space? Rattling inside of you?" She lays a hand over his heart. "Hurts," she breathes against his lips. "Doesn't it?"

He leans in, for a kiss maybe.

She slaps him.

"Let me go. Now."

And now he laughs, red fingers staining his pale face. "Oh, no." He talks into the hollow of her throat as he uncoils her scarf. "Oh, no, no. No, you're not going anywhere. Not this time."

She shivers. The wall is sticky behind her. She's a fly caught in his sticky web.

"What are you doing here?"

"Winning." He kisses her, and she can't breathe. She pushes him away. "What? You want me to leave?"

She looks into his eyes and sees nothing but black, a great whirlpool of black sucking her down. Her hand is on his cheek and she wonders how it got there. His skin is coarse with stubble. His jawbone, strong. Her fingers slip and slide along the bone, under his ear, through his hair. Damp with sleet. Down his neck, she feels tendons, rigid like steel, and veins beating beneath her fingertips. Beating.

"Just say the word. I'll leave."

She throws the door a longing look but her eyes cloud over, and it blurs away into another world because all she can see is him. She can feel his heart beating through her fingers, through his shirt.

"If I go, I'll never come back."

His words are careless as ever.

He catches the arm, caresses it, pins it above her head. His grip is uncompromising.

"Say the word," he commands of her. Daring her. Testing her. Pleading with her. "Say it, and I'll go."

The scarf flutters to the ground.

He stops. Sees the diamonds. And suddenly, he isn't quite so wicked. Suddenly, he's the nineteen-year-old boy, the boy she left behind. He reaches out and his fingers shake.

But she beats him, she cheats him, and undoes the clasp. "I'm glad you came," she says, and she thinks of Fabien and blue eyes. "I've been meaning to give this back." Grabs his hand and smacks it full. She holds his fingers closed over the Erickson Beamon and her neck feels naked, vulnerable, not whole. "I guess diamonds aren't forever, after all. That's too bad, huh? _Adieu_."

She says _adieu _and not _au revoir. _French people say _adieu_ when they don't plan on seeing someone for a long time. Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies.

And he knows this because his French was always better than hers.

"_Adieu_, Chuck."

They've played this game before. She's trying to provoke him. Her words are the knife digging into the crack in the lobster's shell, teasing out the soft gooey stuff inside. But he isn't a lobster, and there's no soft gooey stuff inside. And, besides, this lobster is still alive.

The lobster snaps out with his terrible claws.

He begins to laugh, and his eyes laugh, and then his whole body laughs and shakes with this terrible laughter, and now she realises why he looks different. Now he _looks _like a bad guy instead of just acting like one.

He lets go of her hand, lets it fall limp by her side. Lays his own hands on her, tracing her face, neck, body. He coils up her hair, holding it up and back. It tumbles back down and his full lips curl. He touches her again.

"Turn around."

She does as she is told. Why? who knows? Is it wrong to love someone who has wronged you? To love someone you've wronged.

She does as she is told because she left, and she took more than the diamonds with her. She can see that now.

The stars are low tonight and the sky is white. Over in the distance, the Eiffel Tower waves hello. The bells toll, sweet and low, and Paris slumbers. She watches their reflection in the black glass, how he holds up her hair, taking his time, breathing her in. She breathes him in, smoke and sex and yesterday, and it makes her head spin.

He lays the necklace around her throat, one more time (just in case), clipping it closed. Fixing it. Fixing her, fixing holes she doesn't know she has, holes she doesn't want to know she has.

"Tell me I'm beautiful."

"_Vous êtes belle._"

"Tell me like you mean it."

She can feel him up against her and his voice is velvet, stroking her with luxury and old things and love. She touches a hand to the necklace, and he catches it, kisses it from over her shoulder. She twists to meet him.

"Tell me," she begs.

"No."

"What are you doing?"

The snow on the balcony is perfect and new. It's heaven. He turns her head so she's staring out at heaven, holds it, hard. Her body is so tight, a violin string waiting to be played. An old music box, a wind-up ballerina awaiting the only key.

_So many men, so little time._

If only he knew.

The snow is so white. Her hand is splayed flat against the windowpane. Leaves a handprint. Leaves a mark.

"I'm going to fuck you," he growls in her ear. "Not rape you, not make love to you. I'm going to fuck you. And you're going to like it."


	3. Disarm

**A/N: **warning, this chapter is rated M

**

* * *

DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER**

_  
I've seen diamonds cut through harder men  
Than you yourself but if you must pretend  
Arm yourself because no one else here will save you  
You can't deny the prize it may never fulfil you  
He longs to kill you  
The coldest blood runs through my veins  
You know my name_

_**  
**_**Chapter Three. Disarm**

._**  
**_

It hurts when he kisses her.

She watches him in the black window, her head forced to the side, his eyes shackling her gaze as his lips besiege her flesh. Shoulder, neck, jaw. He won't kiss her on the lips because that's what people in love do.

Because he can't taste another man on her. He can't do that.

He licks, slow, up the jaw. Breath fogs up the window and her head rolls back, her eyes roll back, her mind rolls back into a dark hole and her heart takes control. She grabs his hand tight, fingers and nails. Whimpers, moans, grunts, groans, hot, wet sounds, falling.

They spin fast. Her back smacks up against the wall and she can't breathe, she cries out and he swallows her whimpers. Their hands hang by the diamonds, together. She can feel his heart beat through his shirt. Her hand slips and slides up along his jaw, still sharp, through his hair, down his neck. Tendons like steel girders, waiting to snap, and veins, beating, beneath her fingertips. He's alive under her touch. His hips crush hers against the wall, fingers clawing. Hurting.

He rips at her hand, slamming it against the wall, holding it down. Holding her down. She's not going anywhere, ever.

_[our time is running out, and our time is running out, you can't push it underground, you can't stop it screaming out, how did it come to this?]_

She writhes beneath him and groans. Legs hook his hip, dragging him in deeper.

He shoves her head to the side. Bites down. She cries out, but he presses a hand over her mouth. She licks his palm, pants against his icy fingers. He leaves a mark, everywhere a mark. Marking her as his. She's not going anywhere.

She tastes like cherry Schnapps and home. He tastes like smoke and yesterday.

She's melting, melting like snow under fast wheels, hot blood sizzling up like steam. She's steaming in his arms. Every caress, every touch resonates. Every purple kiss makes her shiver and shake. Her feet leave the ground, hugging his waist as she vibrates against him. He clamps his hand over her eyes.

He's too rough.

He bites her bottom lip, and there's a hot wetness and a salt that they breathe in and swallow and he licks it, up from the hollow of her throat, up her throat, so slow she's screaming with no voice, up to her lips. Eat me, drink me. His fingers leave purple handprints on her wrist.

_[she has me like a Pisces when I am weak, I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks] _

She's raking a hand through his hair, damp from sleet, dragging on his collar. It has to go, she has to be closer, so close they melt and merge into this one single being, fall into each other. He's all over her, like a rash, a fungus, growing, consuming, claiming her, inch by inch. It's been so long, too long since she was held like this. Since she was loved like this.

_[I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap, I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black]_

She knows it's love because it hurts, so bad, so fucking good.

He wants to hurt her. She has to suffer. She has to know what it feels like. His knee aches with a hollow agony, it's the cold soaking in, freezing the pins, but he ignores it. Her kisses torture more, as she breathes into him, filling him with more than oxygen. She is oxygen. Adding oxygen is oxidation, removing it: reducing. She reduces him. Lights the flame and he bubbles down into a pool of hot hisses, burning, indiscriminately. Something archaic. Her kisses are acid, eating away at the silicon skin, reducing him to rust and ruin and true nature. She's scrabbling at his shirt.

He stops dead.

Her fingers linger. Her eyes flicker open. They're black with nasty thoughts. He holds her hand tighter, so tight his knuckle might pop, burst through the skin, stain the wall with red, with nasty thoughts. Her neck is bruising. That's what love is, a bruise, bleeding underneath where nobody sees it.

With curled fingers, he traces her face, nothing more than tenderness. Tucks a curl behind her ear.

She knows what he's doing. She has to make the first move. He's such a fucking bastard.

He's smirking, and red eye shine through the mask.

His hips grind against hers and she can do nothing. She's gone.

She rips at his collar. He laughs in her ear, a deep throaty sound, vicious; he laughs at her as she cries over his buttons. She pushes his jacket off his shoulders, and it hits the floor. Forces down his suspenders. His shirt follows. Hits the floor. Abandoned. She digs her little nails into his arm, attacks his neck with her little mouth. Snorting coke never made his heart beat so fast or hard. Shooting morphine never made him so numb. She can make him forget. She's his favourite drug.

He holds her head in place, hot against his flesh, his hand tangled in her hair. He pulls it, and she gasps against his throat. Blood trickles. Seeps through all the cracks. There's a crack in everything.

That's how the light gets in.

He yanks her back. Crack, her head and the wall, and she laughs with red lips and black eyes. They laugh. Her legs squeeze his waist and he grabs. Slides off the socks. She has to be naked against him. He has to touch every inch. He has to own all of her. He pushes up her dress. Up her thighs, up further. He can feel her against his stomach. Wet.

_[I'll put my nails into your back you'll feel me like a spinal attack you want it from me on both knees but not until you beg] _

He can smell her on his fingers, on his breath, in his hair, on his skin, seeping out. He's all her, always has been. She's in his blood. She leaves the worst tracks. She's his favourite drug

He drinks the sweat from her skin, sucking her dry. She has to be all his.

His hands claw her thighs, slide up her sides, grip her face. Her cheeks. He's looking in her eyes. She has no mind now. He's taken it all away. He's a thief. He robbed her mind, took her breath away, stole her heart. That's how he found her: he had it beating in the palm of his hand, shining the way. She never left. She only ran away. She tried to go cold turkey, failed. He's got her in his invisible handcuffs. It's all so clear now. She hates him, so when she kisses, she kisses so fucking cruel.

He hurt her, and he has to know it.

Her nails puncture his skin and his sweat stings the red crescents, mingling with the blood, running down his back. She licks him off her fingers, one by one, drop by drop by drop. He can't look away. She kisses him with her eyes wide shut. Her hair is plastered to her forehead. She whispers into his mouth, tells him she hates him, tells him what she's going to do to him. She's going to make him bleed. Her hand slips down his back, drags across his stomach, anchors at his hip. Slides lower. A hiss escapes his lips, a guttural growl. She's his favourite drug and just one hit is never enough.

_[I'm your pleasure and your pain I'll numb your fear just like cocaine and I'm your treasure say my name I'm your favourite drug]_

He's trapped. A caged beast.

She can't do that to him. He's in charge. He's in control. He's the monster. He's the fucking king of the world.

He's Chuck Bass.

His hands find her throat. Her life pulsing, so close. He caress it, the wet curves, the hot hot skin and the icy stones and silver. The cold metal. That's what she's like underneath. Cold and metal. If he tore off all her skin, if he sunk his teeth in and ripped it all off, she'd be a silver serpent. His fingers link at the back, thumbs hover by her windpipe.

He pushes down. She has to know. She has to know what she's done.

_[disarm you with a smile and leave you like you left me here to wither in denial the bitterness of one who's left alone, oh, the years burn, oh, the years burn, burn, burn]_

She kisses harder, bites harder, laughing into him, intravenously, scrapes harder, her nails in his shoulder. She gasps and he pushes harder. Harder. Everything is hard. She's hard against the wall, breathing is hard, and his eyes are so hard: black diamonds.

She wrings at his wrists. Shakes them like chains. They should rattle, but they don't. They're too hard.

Harder.

She pulls at them, shaking, scratching, struggling. He can't stop the smile leeching across his face. Who's in control now?

_[The killer in me is the killer in you, send this smile over to you]_

Harder.

Breath whistles in her throat, high and thin. It hurts like hot wires. He can't breathe, but he could never breathe with her close. She stole all his oxygen. She stole his heart.

Harder.

She's staring at him with brown eyes. They're tearing up. He leans in close and licks away the water. She writhes beneath him, but there's no escape, not this time. This time, she won't leave him. She can't. He's won.

_[The killer in me is the killer in you, send this smile over to you]_

Harder.

He can feel her heart hammer. He lays his head against her breast. He can hear her live, live for him.

There's light popping white at the corner of her eyes, it's snowing in Elysium. A tight agony is spreading through her like poison. A feeling of lack, of not enough. There's not enough.

_[The killer in me is the killer in you, send this smile over to you]_

Harder.

She's desperate. She captures his mouth in hers, trying to steal away his breath, but her lips are cold. Her hair sticks to her face, she convulsing in his arms, her eyes are fever-bright. She's so beautiful. He kisses her, so softly, kills her. Like she should be kissed. Kisses her, maybe, goodbye.

_[The killer in me is the killer in you, send this smile over to you]_

Harder.

His hands are shaking. He's crying now. Hot, angry tears. There's pain all over. A new, white hot agony that starts in his chest and pulses, infecting everything. He can't see. She's gone all blurry. She's gone.

He shakes her hard, harder. She has to know.

Look what you've done. Look what you've done to me. Look what I've become.

He screams because it hurts.

_[I used to be a little boy so old in my shoes and what I choose is my voice, what's a boy supposed to do? The killer in me is the killer in you, my love. I send this smile over to you]_

She presses a finger to his lips.

"Who are you?"

"You know my name."

Holds his wrists with that softness she's blessed with. "Chuck." All she can say is him. "Chuck." He's crying. She's never seen him cry before, never knew he even could. "Chuck." Her voice is nothing. "Chuck."

She wishing she had a whistle. A flashlight. An open hand. Anything to lead him home.

"Come back ... Come back."

_[you say that the river finds the way to the sea, and like the river you will come to me]_

They collapse against the wall, chest on chest, lips on lips, breathing each other. That's all there is, all there ever was. Resistance is futile. Her hands are on his face, she's crying against his cheek. She heaves in his arms. He has to stroke her, touch her. He doesn't say he's sorry because he's not, but it won't happen again. He only wants to hold her. His knee aches and her feet fall to the ground.

She says his name, and now he understands who he is. The eclipse is over. It's dawn. He feels new.

"Tell me you love me."

_[beyond the borders and the dry lands, you say that like a river the love will come]_

"Chuck."

"Tell me." He sobs against her warm chest. "Tell me."

"Chuck."

She does, but she can't say it. There's no air in her lungs to voice words.

"TELL ME!"

He roars like some wounded animal, a great tiger, caught in a snare. The monster awakens.

"TELL ME!"

"Chuck."

He tears the Erickson Beamon from her throat, flings it aside. It hits the wall but doesn't break, because diamonds are forever. She isn't. When he throws her, she bruises and breaks. He rips down her dress. It hangs off her belly like a second skin. Hands, warm, everywhere. Her stomach, breasts. The cold makes her nipple stand hard.

"TELL ME!"

He slaps her, but it's himself he's hurting. He slaps her.

"TELL ME!"

"Chuck."

The wall's at her face. Cold against her belly, her breasts and cheek. He's turned her around, she's a rag doll in his hands. A plaything. He holds her in place. He's panting, hot, wet breath against her shoulder, her back. It shouldn't make her blind, but it does. He makes her blind. He makes her scared. Her hands scrape, useless, against the stone, splayed flat. She tries to push herself back, but he's right behind her. He's forcing her into the stone. There's no escape.

His lips are at the nape of her neck. She melts into the stone, melts into him.

Is it possible to hate someone so much you love them? Love someone so much you hate them? Either way, they're stuck, together. Cemented. Planets, orbiting. Irrevocable, inerasable, inexorable.

She can feel him against her back. Hard.

He makes her skin crawl and itch and she wants to tear it all off.

_[and I don't know how to pray anymore, and in love I don't know how to hope anymore]_

"Tell me." His voice slithers, wet and so cold, like ice down her back. She can feel it pool at the base of her spine. Feel the heat, inside her, pooling. "Tell me."

His hands, on her. She whimpers.

"Tell me."

His hands, in her. She moans.

"Tell me!"

She claws at the cold stone, so hot and so cold. Writhing beneath him. Possessed. Her nipples are so hard they ache. There's stone beneath the thin skin, bursting.

"Tell me," he whispers, hoarse and jagged. "Please. Three words, eight letters, say it ... and I'm yours."

"Chuck."

"Goddammit, Blair. Lie. I don't give a fuck. Lie to me."

The tears roll down her cheeks and splash on the searches for his hand, braced against the wall, covers it with her own.

"Lie to me, Blair," he says. "I need you."

She can feel his need. Reciprocated by her own.

_So many men, so little time_

If only he knew.

"Lie to me."

_[and for that love I don't know how to wait anymore]_

Salt stiffened on her cheeks. "I can't."

The sound he makes is beyond human.

He snarls, feral, against her neck. "I can." Pins her hips. She's not ready, she's scared. She can taste blood on his breath, taste the monster. "I can. And I will. And there's nothing you can do."

There's padding steps, tiny ones, a pitter-patter. A creaking door. A tinkle of breaking glass. They whirl about, caught, red-handed, red-eyed, red-mouthed, and something more than precious than glass splinters, all over the floor. Blair can only watch as he breaks, right in front of her, because of her, tiny pieces rolling under couches, into dark forgotten places, forever. His heart hits the floor. It slips through her fingers into the gutter, into the rain and the sleet. It's not so hard. It's no diamond. It shatters.

_[it's too late tonight to drag the past out into the light, we're one, but we're not the same, well we hurt each other then we do it again] _

Fabien watches with blue eyes, old blue eyes.

Blair orders her not to move, lest she cut her tiny feet. But six year olds don't understand glass, six year olds are invincible, and little girls need their mothers, and mothers need to learn not to blame their daughters.

"I love you," she says.

But he can only reply, "Then why didn't you tell me?"

_[love is a temple, love the higher law, you ask me to enter, but then you make me crawl, and I can't be holding on to what you got when all you got is hurt]_

He picks up the necklaces, because diamonds are forever, and leaves.


	4. With Me

**DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER**

_I fought against the bottle_  
_ But I had to do it drunk _  
_ Took my diamond to the pawnshop –_  
_ But that don't make it junk_  
_I know that I'm forgiven_  
_ But I don't know how I know_  
_ I don't trust my inner feelings –_  
_ Inner feelings come and go_

**Chapter Four. With Me  
**

._**  
**_

He can't stay. He can't stay with her, with her lies and her hateful love. He's supposed to be the monster, he's supposed to be the white knight, he's supposed to rescue her and she's supposed to be the damsel in distress. She's supposed to fight, just a little, and then love him. She's not supposed to step out of her dress and show him her scales, her claws and sharp teeth, show him the hole in her chest where real people have a heart. She's not supposed to be a monster, too.

She's supposed to save him.

_(the worst thing you've ever done, the darkest thought you ever had– ) _

She's not supposed to lie to him.

Out in the snow. How he got there, who knows? Who gives a fuck? He doesn't. He can't see for the white, but the blindness comes from inside. He doesn't want to see. His head is full of blue eyes and soft voices. She looks like an angel – his child.

There was a child, and she never told him.

He broke the cardinal rule: underestimated the opponent. He succumbed to love, to her, and she wrapped him up in her softness, her warmth, and stabbed his eyes out with her heart pin. Only he hadn't minded. He trusted her, blindly.

_(I never thought– ) _

Fucking irony, won't it just fucking go and DIE!

_(I never thought the worst thing you ever did would be to me– ) _

The diamond weighs him down with every step, dragging him to the ground. Soon he'll be crawling, scraping forward on his belly. She has him on his knees. He rams a hand into his pocket. The Erickson Beamon curls up cold in his fist. It's still warm. He tries, but he can't break it. Wrenches it, dashes it to the ground, stamps, jumps on it. He can't break it. Diamonds are forever.

She follows him out into the night. It's her turn to chase. She cries his name, but it's lost in the white silence. Snow freefalls all around with giddy tumbles, and she can't see. Cold inside her old coat. He's not even wearing one. She cries out his name, pushing on.

He's standing on the other side of the road, by the wall, by the river.

The river gurgles past the bridge. He clambers up onto the low wall, ignoring his protesting knee. The cold wraps about his shoulders like the richest cloak. It means nothing. He's already numb. His bones are ice, waiting to break, to coming stabbing up through his flesh, waiting for the outside of his body to feel like the inside. There's screaming in a bell jar.

She falls down and the cobbles are wet and cold. She burns her knees on the ice; she's a little girl, with scraped knees. Pushes herself to her feet. No time to be a little girl.

He reaches into his pocket. Diamonds flash in the light. Diamonds, forever, at the bottom of the Seine. He will throw her heart into the river, throw away all she has left.

"_STOP!_"

He stops. He doesn't want to, but it happens.

Faint, this time. "Stop."

He opens his hand. It hangs off one finger, swaying in the wind. His hair blows, white with snow. She realises she's not wearing any shoes and her feet hurt. She can't step off the pavement on the road. She can't cross, not this time, not this bridge. There is no halfway. One of them has to concede, to surrender, to accept the War Guilt Clause and pay the reparations.

"Please. Don't. Please."

"On your knees."

The scrapes blaze against the ice, open wounds sticking.

"I'm sorry," she shouts. "I'm sorry."

The moment she says the words, she wishes she could take them back. Erase them. She doesn't have the right to say she's sorry, to beg clemency. Absolution. They can't kiss and make up this time. This isn't high school, they aren't kids. They're old now, and when they fall down, it hurts. When they fall down, they stay down. Sorry isn't good enough; sorry isn't enough.

"That's a bandaid for a bullet wound, sugar."

He says sugar like she's his whore for the night; drawls it, liquid sugar. It sticks her insides together.

_(The worst thing you've ever done, the darkest thought you ever had– )_

She's eclipsed him. She's the bad guy this time. And the worst thing she's ever done, there's no comparison.

_(I never thought the worst thing you ever did would be to me– )_

When he finally speaks, she wishes he would shout. Yell, rage, storm, lose himself. It's easier to be scared than sorry. Sorry is not enough.

"Were you ever going to tell me at all?"

She drops her head, because they both know the answer. If he knocked on her front door, she would let him in – but would she knock on his?

No halfway. Only surrender.

"That's my _child_ in there. That's _my_ child and you never told me. You never told me I have a little girl. You never told me, how could you do that? Is this all some huge game to you? Have me chase you across the fucking universe? Because if this is a game, then I quit. I give up. I surrender." He flings the necklace at her feet. Clatters against the ice. "I won't play anymore."

The river runs beside him, unspoken and deep. It's the River Styx.

"You win," he says. "I can't play anymore."

The worst thing he's ever done? Fall in love with her. Now he's in the hole, way down in the hole, the pit, the trenches, and it's a one-way road. There's no going back. His feet hurt. He can't walk anymore.

He drops off the wall, fluid with defeat. His knee goes and he has to grab the wall, crumpling down into the snow. He closes his eyes against the pain, holds his breath. There's a vacuum in his chest and, if he inhales, everything will collapse. Implode. There's this hole where his heart used to be. A black pit, warped into a black hole, sucking him in, sucking him down and down and down.

The River Styx rushes by and this is the Underworld.

"I'm done."

"I wanted to," she cries. "I wanted to tell you, I did. You've got to believe me. I just – I couldn't." She looks up. She's still on her knees. The cold doesn't matter anymore. It's a fair price to pay. "I'm weak."

"And that's my fault?"

"Chuck– "

"Mr. Bass."

"Chuck, please," she begs.

But he turns away.

"CHUCK!"

She runs after him, slips on the black ice, falls at his feet. There's a bruise rising up her cheek, and it makes his throat constrict. She's a piece of shrapnel embedded in his heart, left over from the supernova. He will always love her. But that's not enough.

He looks at her, down at her, like some stray dog. Tilts her chin up with the tip of his shoe, all the way up, until things crack.

"I don't know you."

A light dies somewhere behind her eyes. It's the white nothing of surrender. She gazes up at him without seeing. Tears leak from her brown eyes, tiny diamonds clinging to the curve of her jaw, the smallest River Styx. She's knows, now. Knows he's gone. It should feel like freedom, only it feels like he's signed over his soul. He starts to walk away before it's too late.

His eyes kill her. They're doing that thing where they don't match his mouth. If he truly hated her, she could cope. It would hurt, every day would be a new stake through the heart, but she could cope. She would live, secure in certainty. But this, this brings the darkness crashing down like some great tsunami, because his eyes are begging her to forgive him. Because his eyes love her still. And that's too much.

So she gets to her feet and steps out on to the road. She will go home now, and live her life without him. She will go to the drawer by the sink and find the duct tape. Patch up her heart, wrap it up tight. If limbs start to rot and fall off, if gangrene sets in, she won't loosen the tourniquet. She'll just do her best. She'll kiss Fabien goodnight, every night, tell her she loves her, and pretend she's not pretending that those blue eyes are brown.

"You win," she says to his back.

It's dawn, Paris is gold, but she's cocooned in darkness, thicker than water, and she doesn't hear it coming.

He watches her walk away from him again. His feet are moving, but he's going nowhere. Running to stand still.

If he's won, why does it feel like he's lost?

_(I'm tired of being lost– )_

He found her, did he not? He did find her.

_(come find me– )_

Only she's not the same, and it's not the same. He's a man searching for a childhood toy to help him sleep at night. What was magic then is senseless now. Old bears can't fight Valium, but all he wants is to be able to hold that bear again – to feel like he did, when he held that bear. When that bear was all he needed to get him through the darkness.

_(come find me– )_

The snow reflects red and orange, street lamps and headlights. The night is too thick, though, and they're only little pools of light, little safe havens in the blackness. She steps through one, and then disappears again. Snow soaks up all the sound. The car grinds on by, slow, but the ice is black and treacherous and the driver tries to regain control, but he sees her too late, and she doesn't she him, and–

He watches. Separated. Brain processes the images. Waiting for higher command. These orders must come from the heart.

"BLAIR!"

He pulls her back, back into his arms, and life goes screaming on by.

They stand there, together, breathing. There are skid marks all down the road. He's holding her so tight she might break, a handful of hair, a fistful of coat. He has to hold on to her, lest she evaporate. Lest he evaporate. She's the moon, he's the earth. Without her, he doesn't work. He exists, yes, but everything is wrong and people die. It's unfortunate, but that's how it is. That's just how it is.

They're standing in the middle of the road, Paris at dawn. She has no shoes, he has no jacket. Life happens around them, these human statues. Birds cry, Notre Dame sings out low and a local baker hustles open his door. Smells of fresh bread and sweet, sticky things, of cinnamon and Christmas and morning.

"Let me go, Chuck."

"No," he says.

"No," he says.

"Please, Chuck, just ... let me go."

She doesn't fight his hold, because this isn't about his hands on her head, her back. He's got her heart in a vice. He can't keep opening it, only to snap it shut again. He can't throw her away to come back and save her. It's too late for knights in shining armour and white horses. She doesn't believe in fairytales, not anymore.

"Let me go."

She doesn't need a hero, only someone to hold her in the dark.

"No."

"Let me go."

His skin is still warm beneath her touch, so smooth. Feels his spine, all its falls and rises. How can he let go if she's holding on?

"I can't."

She drags free. Hot and angry tears, forcing their way through, stinging her cheeks. He reaches for her, reaches to pull her back in. Slaps his hands away. Thrashes against him, fists flailing, caught up in his web. He catches her windmill hands, trying to restrain her.

"Blair," he calls to her, his hands on her face. The tears and the bruises and his hands. "Blair. Blair."

She's slapping, clawing at his face, his hands, his chest. He lets her. Fights, gets his arms around her, to hold her – together – because she is ripping at the seams.

"Blair."

"No, I can't, Chuck, no, let me go."

"No."

She wrenches away. He lunges after her. She swings at his jaw. Doesn't leave a bruise, because she's weak. But that doesn't matter, because he's here to be strong. Trying, to subdue her. She has the iron desperation of one who's about to lose. Her arms shake with effort. His fingers, wrapped around her fists, forcing her back. He was always stronger than he looked.

She kicks him hard. The knee. His yell rips the night apart, and he staggers, dragging her down. Her eyes rush open and the cold stings. Their hands have melded. His eyes are awash with rage and pain and shame and soft things. His breath steams up the air, mingling with hers, a cloud of them, floating. Indiscernible. One.

She washes away his tears with her own. Drops a fist, holds a hand to his cheek. An unconditional surrender, here, in Paris.

He kisses her like a diver emerging for air, like she's the only source of oxygen left in the whole wide world. He kisses her like she's beautiful. He kisses her hard, biting down on her bottom lip, so she gasps into him. Her tongue traces his teeth, straight, sharp, plunging deeper. Desperate.

Sorry is just a word, but a kiss is so much more.

There's clapping, a wolf whistle shatters the morning silence. A delivery boy on his bicycle, "_Joyeux Noël!_" he cries.

He smiles against her, and she can taste it.

"_Maman! Maman! Maman!_"

The sound makes them both turn, both remember that the world is still out there. She spins, sees Fabien come running. Her red boots are on the wrong feet. "_Maman! Maman!_" She opens her arms and the child slams into her, through her, her tiny fingers holding more than skin and hair. She clutches her close, fingers stroking the silky curls, murmuring apologies.

Fabien wriggles free and scrabbles in the snow. She holds up the necklace, tells Blair she dropped it.

"_Merci, cherie_," she whispers, stowing it back in a deep pocket. She picks her up again, holds her tighter. Runs her hands over her little face, her little hands – so cold – her soft hair. It's white blonde, just like the old pictures, when they were all little children with scraped knees and white smiles. Serena wore her hair in bunches. Nate had missing teeth. She had shiny red patent leather shoes, all the way from Milan. He had white blonde hair. That was before life happened, turned him dark, scuffed her shiny, shiny shoes.

Every time she looks at Fabien, she can see him. "_Je t'aime du fond de mon coeur_," she tells her. Tells him.

I love you with all my heart, from the bottom of my heart. As if she has a heart left.

I love you from the bottom of my heart.

Not enough.

"_Maman_," she murmurs, twisting Blair's hair, making messy plaits. She's so little, so warm, so whole in her arms. But is she whole? Is she? After her own father left, something was missing. But can one miss something they never had?

"_Maman_, is it him?"

Blair searches deep in her daughter's eyes, such blue eyes, and the answer is right there. The answer is yes. She wraps her fingers around Fabien's. Together, they look over at Daddy.

She sets her daughter down on the grounds, bends down beside her, scrapes her hair back. "Why don't you ask him?" Gives her a little push. This is the best she can do. This is her white flag. This is her great apology, her favourite macaroons and silk stockings, her Erickson Beamon, her three words, her eight letters. This is her life, and she's giving it to him. This is her life, not just her heart, and is she trusting him. "Go on. _Allez, cherie_. Go."

She had hated him, cursed him with a passion, until she met Fabien. Fabien was a love child, a real one.

He scoops her up, no hesitation, this precious bundle. This is his daughter. He loves her, and he doesn't even know her name.

"_Comment tu t'appelles?_"

She says, "Fabien. _Je m'appelle Fabien._"

He's holding her and she kisses his forehead. His heart starts to beat. This is what _living_ feels like.

"Fabien," he says, like it's the best, like it's the only word in the whole world. "Fabien, Fabien, Fabien."

_[I don't want this moment to ever end]_

"_Oui_. _C'est moi_. Fabien."

It doesn't matter that his knee aches. His daughter in his embrace. He's never going to put her down again. He'll take her everywhere, every second, every meeting. He can't let her go. Now he's held her, every moment spent without her in his arm – without her tiny head against his heart, her arms around his neck, her hair tickling his chin, her trust a cloak around his shoulders, a crown on his head – every second without her will be a second spent burning. Without oxygen.

_[where everything's nothing, without you]_

"Fabien."

Without her, he'll die.

"Fabien."

She whispers in his hear, _are you him? _

Together, they look over at Mama. He strokes her hair, so soft, so light. He hopes it never changes. He wants to stay like this forever.

"_Demande à ta mere, mon amour_," he tells her.

Ask your mother. My love.

_[These words are my heart and soul]_

She buries her head in his chest, and he protects her from the world. He's her father. That's what fathers do. Fathers make everything okay. Fabien whispers, "_Est-ce que tu m'aimes?_"

Do you love me?

"_Oui_." He's looking at her mother. "_Oui_."

_[I'll hold on to this moment you know]_

Yes.

"_Toujours._"

_[because I'll bleed my heart out to show]_

"Always," Blair whispers. "Always."

_[that I won't let go]_


End file.
